SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE
TAUGHT.
I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began.
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me-every trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
"Kilve," said I, "was a favourite place,
And so is Liswyn farm."
My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
"Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm,
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?"
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so;
My little Edward, tell me why."
"I cannot tell, I do not know."
"Why, this is strange," said I.
"For here are woods and green hills warm: There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea."
At this my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And five times to the child I said,
"Why, Edward, tell me why?"
His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the housetop, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock;
And thus to me he made reply,
"At Kilve there was no weathercock,
And that's the reason why."
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore.
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more
Than the height of a counsellor's bag;
To the top of Great How were once tempted to climb;
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,
A man on the peak of the crag.
They built him of stones gathered up as they lay;
They built him and christened him all in one day,
An urchin both vigorous and hale;
And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.
Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north
Coming on with a terrible pother,
From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.
And what did these school-boys? The very next day They went and they built up another.
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